I am exhausted, can’t you see it,
How my eyes are so ripe with lassitude,
And you call them beautiful.
What is yet unborn wells up in me
And disturbs the symmetry of my charm.
I have become so secretive,
But what could I now say?
The things that I fashion grow so frightening,
And speak on my behalf with
And see my hand,
What you once so fondly called
The coil of my dreams,
how monstrous it has grown,
And it already shapes my famed madness,
And it is as though I was no more than hand,
Brutal instrument of my genius
That would one day smother us.
But then you remember my lips,
Which have always been so childlike,
A sensuality wholly reserved for me alone
And waiting to break.